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Huevo hated. He made things worse and worse, until one night in a bathtub when the water, turning pink, warmed his fragile bones, he had an idea. He climbed out of the tub and wrapped a towel round his wrist.
Then he started writing, on a typewriter his grandmother had written bestselling cookbooks on, the two plans.
One told him how to become a better, happier person. The other told his friends that he was faking it. He put the latter in six envelopes and mailed them so that they would arrive in ten years. They could never shake that.